A THEATRE NAMED CEREBRUM

theatre

The zest of a lemon, a sugar-coated wafer, foul odour, euphoric aroma and the emptiness of the barren void. Unstimulating insignificance, turmoil, sudden cramps, heartache for reasons unknown and pulsating vital organs. Rough textures from smooth; smooth from rough, the pleasure that gravity affords. Heedless of the nature of sex and sexuality. Two directional manipulation by way of touch. The perception of longitudinal and transverse waves communicating as best they can. These, and these alone, were all I believed I ever knew. These were the pittance, delusions had endowed. Yet all this was when I was God, God of all I could evaluate, sat august on my throne and out of reach. That was when I was the entire universe.  That was when elation was what fatalistic happenstance brought forth.

Perhaps I exaggerate a little. A new-found enthusiasm does that. It would be an idiocy to say I was not alive to the existence of anything else. Breathing phenomenon’s whose presence outside of me would add to my alien self. For instance, they applied heavy wrappings that warmed me when cold, flimsy ones that served to cool me when too hot. As to exactly what living things they might be, I had not the vaguest concept save that they might have been the viable flotsam and jetsam serving my continuum. Whatever, those who breathed delivered sustenance and cleanliness.

Whether she found me, or had been gifted me I have yet to determine. All I know is that prior to the event I was that macrocosm, just a solitary star in a curved and bent blackened retreat. Cold hearted instinct had declared I was a pulsating, living thing, seemingly born into a realm of muddled isolation.  Of that I was chaotically aware. That aside, an eternal abyss of my own making was my possessor and only possession. That, I believe, is the way of God wherever one might find Him.

Come her perfume, all would change. She has shown me that within her realm of balance I cannot speak, nor hear, nor see, whereas in her equivalent such senses are taken for granted. Now I am savvy to the simple verifiable truth that I am no God. That I would find the legendary unicorn alive and well, an easier thing than unravelling the puzzle of impossible omnipotence.

Through touch and tangled tongue, she has transposed images of her past and current, her hopes and dreams as clearly as if I had eyes that see. I do not think she is aware she has this capacity within her. Her words of knowledge sit inside the library she has contrived inside my head. Were I not mute I would tell her of her energy. I perceive visions of her life through hopeless eyes. I hear her speak on stage in a theatre named Cerebrum.  Could I conjure spoken words and viable replies I would debate with her. No longer am I deserted, left to fend alone in an enclave of instability, unaware of predators and poisonous plants.

If I could live out the simplicity of my flawless dream then I would climb the highest mountain, cast my net and harvest a sky full of storm clouds, hide them away and gift her, her very own wild blue yonder.

 

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38 thoughts on “A THEATRE NAMED CEREBRUM

    1. Thanks, Teagan. I shall thrive as I hope you do also. I had a bad back a while ago and the physio ended the session with a mega hug, supposedly to loosen up muscle. He broke two of my ribs!

      1. Thanks, Leslie. If and when the he and the she of this tale live in a book, I’ll post you a copy. I’m getting ever so close to finishing, yet you never know with me.

  1. Oh I adore this. It reminds me of Diana Wynne Jones story DOGSBODY: this, what you wrote, makes me think of what Sirius the star would say and feel when he first finds love in the heavens.
    And as others have said, that last line is killer. I mean, you NAILED this one, Sir.

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